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DAWN
Picking her way through these, Angela stopped under an
ancient yew, and, pointing to one of the two shadowed
mounts to which the moonlight scarcely struggled, said, in
a low voice,
"That is my mother's grave."
It was a modest tenement enough, a little heap of close
green turf, surrounded by a railing, and planted with sweetwilliams and forget- me-nots. At its head was placed a white
marble cross, on which Arthur could just distinguish the
words "Hilda Caresfoot," and the date of death.
He was about to speak, but she stopped him with a gentle
movement, and then, stepping forward to the head of the railing, she buried her face in her hands, and remained motionless. Arthur watched her with curiosity. What, he wondered,
was passing in the mind of this strange and beautiful woman,
who had grown up so sweet and pure amidst moral desolation, like a white lily blooming alone on the black African
plains in winter? Suddenly she raised her head, and saw the
inquiring look he bent upon her. She came towards him, and,
in that sweet, half- pleading voice which was one of her greatest charms, she said,
"I fear you think me very foolish?"
"Why should I think you foolish?"
"Because I have come here at night to stand before a halfforgotten grave."
"I do not think you foolish, indeed. I was only wondering
what was passing in your mind."
Angela hung her head and made no answer, and the clock
above them boomed out the hour, raising its sullen note in
271
H. RIDER HAGGARD
insolent defi ance of the silence. What is it that is so solemn
about the striking of the belfry-clock when one stands in
a churchyard at night? Is it that the hour softens our natures,
and makes them more amenable to semi- superstitious infl uences? Or is it that the thousand evidences of departed mortality which surround us, appealing with dumb force to natural fears, throw open for a space the gates of our world-sealed
imagination, to tenant its vast halls with prophetic echoes of
our end? Perhaps it is useless to inquire. The result remains
the same: few of us can hear those tones at night without
a qualm, and, did we put our thoughts into words, they would
run something thus:
"That sound once broke upon the living ears of those who
sleep around us. We hear it now. In a little while, hour after
hour, it will echo against the tombstones of our graves, and
new generations, coming out of the silent future, will stand
where we stand, and hearken; and muse, as we mused, over
the old problems that we have gone to solve; whilst we –
shall we not be deaf to hear and dumb to utter?"
Such, at any rate, were the unspoken thoughts that crept
into the hearts of Arthur and Angela as the full sound from
the belfry thinned itself away into silence. She grew a little
pale, and glanced at him, and he gave an involuntary shiver,
while even the dog Aleck sniffed and whined uncomfortably.
"It feels cold," he said. "Shall we go?"
They turned and walked towards the gate, and, by the
time they reached it, all superstitious thoughts had vanished – at any rate, from Arthur's mind, for he recollected
that he had set himself a task to do, and that now would be
272
DAWN
the time to do it. Absorbed in this refl ection, he forgot his politeness, and passed fi rst through the turnstile. On the further
side he paused, and looked earnestly into his beloved's face.
Their eyes met, and there was that in his that caused her to
swiftly drop her own. A silence ensued as they stood by the
gate. He broke it.
"It is a lovely night. Let us walk through the ruins."
"I shall wet my feet: the dew must be falling."
"There is no dew falling to-night. Won't you come?"
"Let us go to-morrow; it is later than I generally go in. Pigott will wonder what has become of me."
"Never mind Pigott. The night is too fi ne to waste asleep;
besides, you know, one should always look at ruins by moonlight. Please come."
She looked at him doubtfully, hesitated, and came.
"What do you want to see?" she said presently, with as
near an approach to irritation as he had ever heard her indulge in. "That is the famous window that Mr. Fraser always
goes into raptures about."
"It is beautiful. Shall we sit down here and look at it?"
They sat down on a low mass of fallen masonry some fi fteen paces from the window. Around them lay a delicate tracery of shadows, whilst they themselves were seated in the eye
of the moonlight, and remained for a while as silent and as
still as though they had been the shades of the painted fi gures
that had once fi lled the stony frame above them.
"Angela," he said at length – "Angela, listen, and I will
tell you something. My mother, a woman to whom sorrow
had become almost an inspiration, when she was dying, spoke
273
H. RIDER HAGGARD
to me something thus: 'There is,' she said, 'but one thing that
I know of that has the power to make life happy as God meant
it to be, and as the folly and weakness of men and women
render it nearly impossible for it to be, and that is – love.
Love has been the consolation of my own existence in the
midst of many troubles; fi rst, the great devotion I bore your
father, and then that which I entertain for yourself. Without
these two ties, life would indeed have been a desert. And yet,
though it is a grief to me to leave you, and though I shrink
from the dark passage that lies before me, so far does that fi rst
great love outweigh the love I bear you, that in my calmer
moments I am glad to go, because I know I am awaited by
your father. And from this I wish you to learn a lesson: look
for your happiness in life from the love of your life, for there
only will you fi nd it. Do not fritter away your heart, but seek
out some woman, some one good and pure and true, and in
giving her your devotion, you will reap a full reward, for her
happiness will refl ect your own, and, if your choice is right,
you will, however stormy your life may be, lay up for yourself,
as I feel that I have done, an everlasting joy.'"
She listened to him in silence.
"Angela," he went on, boldly enough, now that the ice
was broken, "I have often thought about what my mother
said, but until now I have never quite understood her
meaning. I do understand it now. Angela, do you understand me?"
There was no answer; she sat there upon the fallen masonry, gazing at the ruins round her, motionless and white as
a marble goddess, forgotten in her desecrated fane.
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DAWN
"Oh, Angela, listen to me – listen to me! I have found the
woman of whom my mother spoke, who must be so 'good and
pure and true.' You are she. I love you, Angela, I love you with
my whole life and soul; I love you for this world and the next.
Oh! do not reject me; though I am so little worthy of you,
I will try to grow so. Dearest, can you love me?"
Still there was silence, but he thought that he saw her
breast heave gently. Then he placed his hand, all trembling
with the fi erce emotion that throbbed along his veins, upon
the palm that hung listless by her side, and gazed into her
eyes. Still she neither spoke nor shrank, and, in the imperfect
light, her face looked very pale, while her lovely eyes were
dark and meaningless as those of one entranced.
Then slowly he gathered up his courage for an effort, and,
raising his face to the level of her own, he kissed her full upon
her lips. She stirred, she sighed. He had broken the spell; the
sweet face that had withdrawn itself drew nearer to him; for
a second the awakened eyes looked into his own, and fi lled
them with refl ected splendour, and then he became aware of
a warm arm thrown about his neck, and next – the stars grew
dim, and sense and life itself seemed to shake upon their
thrones, for a joy almost too great for mortal man to bear took
possession of his heart as she laid her willing lips upon his own.
And then, before he knew her purpose, she slid down upon her
knees beside him, and placed her head upon her breast.
"Dearest," he said, "don't kneel so; look at me."
Slowly she raised her face, wreathed and lovely with many
blushes, and looked upon him with tearful eyes. He tried to
raise her.
275
H. RIDER HAGGARD
"Let me be," she said, speaking very low. "I am best so; it is
the attitude of adoration, and I have found – my divinity."
"But I cannot bear to see you kneel to me."
"Oh! Arthur, you do not understand; a minute since I did
not understand that a woman is very humble when she really
loves.
"Do you – really love me, Angela?"
"I do."
"Have you known that long?"
"I only knew it when – when you kissed me. Before then
there was something in my heart, but I did not know what it
was. Listen, dear," she went on, "for one minute to me fi rst,
and I will get up" (for he was again attempting to raise her).
"What I have to say is best said upon my knees, for I want to
thank God who sent you to me, and to thank you too for your
goodness. It is so wonderful that you should love a simple girl
like me, and I am so thankful to you. Oh! I have never lived
till now, and" (rising to her full stature) "I feel as though
I had been crowned a queen of happy things. Dethrone me,
desert me, and I will still be grateful to you for this hour of
imperial happiness. But if you, after a while, when you know
all my faults and imperfections better, can still care for me,
I know that there is something in me that will enable me to
repay you for what you have given me, by making your whole
life happy. Dear, I do not know if I speak as other women do,
but, believe me, it is out of the fulness of my heart. Take care,
Arthur, oh! take care, lest your fate should be that of the magician you spoke of the other day, who evoked the spirit, and
then fell down before it in terror. You have also called up
276
DAWN
a spirit, and I pray that it was not done in sport, lest it should
trouble you hereafter."
"Angela, do not speak so to me; it is I who should have
knelt to you. Yes, you were right when you called yourself 'a
queen of happy things.' You are a queen"
"Hush! Don't overrate me; your disillusion will be the
more painful. Come, Arthur, let us go home."
He rose and went with her, in a dream of joy that for a moment precluded speech. At the door she bade him good-night,
and, oh! happiness, gave him her lips to kiss. Then they parted, their hearts too full for words. One thing he asked her,
however.
"What was it that took you to your mother's grave tonight?"
She looked at him with a curiously mixed expression of
shy love and conviction on her face, and answered,
"Her spirit, who led me to your heart."
CHAPTER XXVII
George's recovery, when the doctors had given up all
hope, was sufficiently marvellous to suggest the idea that
a certain power had determined – on the hangman's principle, perhaps – to give him the longest of ropes; but it
could in reality be traced to a more terrestrial influence –
namely, Lady Bellamy's nursing. Had it not been for this
nursing, it is very certain that her patient would have
joined his forefathers in the Bratham churchyard. For
whole days and nights she watched and tended him,
scarcely closing her own eyes, and quite heedless of the
danger of infection; till in the end she conquered the fever,
and snatched him from the jaws of the grave. How often
has not a woman's devotion been successful in such
a struggle!
On the Monday following the events narrated in the
last chapter, George, now in an advanced stage of convalescence, though forbidden to go abroad for another fortnight,
was sitting downstairs enjoying the warm sunshine, and the
sensation of returning life and vigour that was creeping
into his veins, when Lady Bellamy came into the room,
bringing with her some medicine.
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DAWN
"Here is your tonic, George; it is the last dose that I can
give you, as I am going back to my disconsolate husband at
luncheon-time."
"I can't have you go away yet; I am not well enough."
"I must go, George; people will begin to talk if I stop here
any longer."
"Well, if you must, I suppose you must," he answered,
sulkily. "But I must say I think that you show a great want of
consideration for my comfort. Who is to look after me,
I should like to know? I am far from well yet – far from well."
"Believe me," she said, softly, "I am very sorry to leave you,
and am glad to have been of help to you, though you have
never thought much about it."
"Oh, I am sure I am much obliged, but it is not likely that
you would leave me to rot of fever without coming to look after me."
She sighed as she answered,
"You would not do as much for me."
"Oh, bother, Anne, don't get sentimental. Before you go,
I must speak to you about that girl Angela. Have you taken
any steps?"
Lady Bellamy started.
"What, are you still bent upon that project?"
"Of course I am. It seemed to me that all my illness was
one long dream of her. I am more bent upon it than ever."
"And do you still insist upon my playing the part you had
marked out for me? Do you know, George, that there were
times in your illness when, if I had relaxed my care for a single fi ve minutes, it would have turned the scale against you,
279
H. RIDER HAGGARD
and that once I did not close my eyes for fi ve nights? Look at
me, how thin and worn I am: it is from nursing you. I have
saved your life. Surely you will not now force me to do this
unnatural thing."
"If, my dear Anne, you had saved my life fi fty times,
I would still force you to do it. Ah! it is no use your looking at
that safe. I have no doubt that you got my keys and searched it
whilst I was ill, but I was too sharp for you. I had the letters
moved when I heard that you were coming to nurse me. They
are back there now, though. How disappointed you must have
been!" And he chuckled.
"I should have done better to let you die, monster of wickedness and ingratitude that you are!" she said, stamping her
foot upon the fl oor, and the tears of vexation standing in her
eyes.
"The letters, my dear Anne; remember that you have got
to earn your letters. I am very much obliged to you for your
nursing, but business is business."
She was silent for a moment, and then spoke in her ordinary tone.
"By the way, talking of letters, there was one came for you
this morning in your cousin Philip's handwriting, and with
a London postmark. Will you read it?"
"Read it – yes; anything from the father of my inamorata
will be welcome."
She fetched the letter and gave it him. He read it aloud. After a page of congratulations on his convalescence, it ended,
"And now I want to make a proposal to you – viz., to buy
back the Isleworth lands from you. I know that the place is
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